


dandelions

by Laeana



Series: and winter never seemed cold [1]
Category: Biathlon RPF
Genre: 2021 World Championships, Boys Kissing, Comfort Sex, Denial of Feelings, Dorks in Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Implied Sexual Content, Insecurity, M/M, Self-Hatred, Talking, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:07:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29662215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeana/pseuds/Laeana
Summary: " 'Cause I'm in a field of dandelionsWishing on every one that you'll be mine, mine "Quentin comes to knock at Emilien's door after the mass start.
Relationships: Emilien Jacquelin/Quentin Fillon Maillet
Series: and winter never seemed cold [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192715
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	dandelions

**Author's Note:**

> (dandelions by ruth b)

There is a lot to be said. Emilien is aware of this. He is aware of way too many things at the moment. Above all, he feels calm. But it's the kind of calm … in the midst of a storm. The one that doesn’t last and that leaves this feeling of torpor, of numbness.

As if he wasn't quite himself.

He tried to wipe his tears as quickly as possible after letting them fall for too long. He had to do his routine, the one that follows him through good days and bad ones. He can’t escape it after all, that’s not even a possibility. The interviews he would almost loathe right now, all asking him for answers he doesn't necessarily have. Distraught. The idea that it's his fault.

Blaming himself is never a good thing, maybe what others add to that self-hate is even worse.

He should have done better, he should have found a way to put those bullets in, he never should have-

What's done is done.

He was so angry with himself, he was so revolted. He wanted to stop it all, he wanted to run away from here. Rising emotions are never good. The 15/20 at the end almost sets him mockingly and Fabien's hug doesn't help. He wants to collapse in his arms but has to finish the race first.

Well, it's been a long time. Such bad results.

The debrief passes before his eyes. His team can see it hurts him but they can't afford the indulgence, not now. They cannot go back and postpone the session for another day. With an almost unhealthy obsession, Emilien doesn’t want to postpone it anyway, it has to happen right now, he has to see it, and listens to the comments, reviews the bullet holes, the precise moment.

He's hurting himself, probably.

He just needs to forget about it, heal his hurt ego and move on. Even though it gets stuck in his throat right now.

The faster he can get back to his room, the better.

It’s his conviction.

When the door slams behind his back, he brings both palms to his eyes and presses hard. He can't cry yet. He is an adult, he must accept his failures, think about the long-term thing more than this moment. On what he's accomplished and the medals he's won. It’s not a race that blackens the whole picture, that’s not true.

He is desperately trying to convince himself. It's always hard to swallow the bitter feeling of a defeat, which marks the soul despite everything, from now on he will have to carry with him this memory whether he likes it or not, this memory of five targets missed in one turn, this rage, this despair, this incomprehension, he will have to keep with him. It just won't leave him anyway.

He breathes. 

He doesn't feel like he's breathing properly. His chest hurts. 

He throws himself under the hot spray of the shower, hoping to drown his thoughts. He doesn't want to think about today anymore, he's already done enough like that. This is enough for him. He doesn't want to think about the outside part either. About his family, about his relatives, about Martin, maybe … the message that was waiting for him on his phone before the race ; _I can't wait to see what you will show us today_ … they were close once …

He misses his presence from time to time. He misses the beginning and those who left along the way. He knew Martin would leave them eventually, it was inevitable, it would happen, but still. He struggled to contain his emotions when he realized that he would never find him facing him in race again. 

He would have known what to say to him right now, and how to comfort him. And Emilien would have let him in. 

He doesn't want to see anybody there now. He doesn't feel like seeing his French teammates and being very bad company. He'd rather spare them that.

(He drops a comment on Quentin's post anyway, as he should.)

Later-

Emilien doesn't know exactly when. He fell asleep on his bed. His phone is right by his side and he’s still fully dressed up. The effort, the emotions and the crying must have tired him. He still feels bad, but maybe in a better way. The stray thoughts that were spinning in his mind are gone.

He feels at ease, as one can be after a loss. After the tears. After the sadness. There is a small void at the moment, which doesn't mean much. Night has fallen outside, he can see the dark sky by the window, but it’s not that late. 

He missed the meal though.

He's not that hungry. Perhaps he should take this opportunity to supplement the night's sleep he has just started.

His phone has several notifications of all kinds and he doesn't know if he's ready to respond to all of them. He knows he can't afford to ignore the world forever, but is it wrong to push the deadline to the next day ?

He hears a noise at his door. 

He gets up, ready to open and apologize for missing the meal, to explain himself. That’s just an accident after all, he didn’t do it on purpose, even if he can admit he’s relieved not to have to face his teammates. His surprise is great when he unlocks the door.

Oh.

Quentin is standing behind the door.

It was always special between Quentin and him. They are floating above a limit. Somewhere between friendship and more. And it shouldn't be, it should never have gone wrong like that, but he doesn't dare say anything. He can’t say anything more.

This relationship scares him, terrifies him. The fact that they did not put a name on it is an aggravating factor. What are they ? What are they doing ? Doubts and doubts. Emilien is used to being a confident person, sometimes even arrogant. He has his character and it’s the same for the one who faces him. They are competitive. It's too new and it's too unclear to sound like them.

Quentin is dressed in the most elegant way he has seen him since the start of the world championships, in a white shirt and tight black jeans. 

Magnificent. 

Yes.

He had never known any doubts about his sexuality other than when it was- 

When it was about Quentin.

There was so much to say about him. So much he could find. He would probably come out of breath and at a loss for words before he'd even described a third of what he found so captivating. The inaccessible, the unattainable …

“I was starting to think you were dead, since you didn't come for the meal.”

“Oh, uh … I fell asleep.”

He sincerely hopes he doesn't have the trace of the pillow on his cheek.

“With the guys, we'll have a drink at the hotel bar to celebrate the end of the championship. You coming ?”

The end ...

He thinks about it. He knows an easy fix would be alcohol. He could probably drown his problems in it. But, again, he doesn't want to ruin the mood for the other Frenchmen. They deserve a better evening. He simply shakes his head.

“I think I'll pass my turn. Have fun.”

He turns around, ready to close the door in his tracks, to let an evening go by without him. They can be happy without him. He is not, per se, an essential element.

“So is that all I deserve as a reward ? A poor comment on Instagram ?”

His hand tightens on the handle. Emilien wonders if he misheard. If he simply imagined what he just heard. Turning around only gives him additional confirmation. Quentin crosses his arms over his chest and stares at him, a glint deep in his eyes. He can't tell if it's annoyance or impatience.

“Quentin …”

“I thought you had a better team spirit than that.”

“I don't want to talk about it, please Quentin. I know I fucked up, it's okay. And you got ... you finally got what you deserved. You deserved to get this medal, you really deserved it, congratulations. But I just don't feel like celebrating tonight, sorry.”

Each has their turn. They had good and bad moments. He can see it, he never forgets it. Quentin who bites his lip, who clenches his fist, raging, who turns away from a vision that hurts him too much, who tries harder than all the others, who falls even harder, who gets up, who is disappointed, whose heart is bruised, who continues to move forward, over and over again.

Emilien watched him all this time. He saw it. He saw him. He knows he deserves this podium, he wanted him to have this podium and this medal. He wanted him there. He only hoped he would be by his side or not too far away to tell him. Which never happened. So he will remain proud of what the other Frenchman has accomplished, although that will not erase his own failures.

He turns around a second time, convinced it will be the last. The door closes behind him. He is already considering the bed in front of him, because he has nothing else to do and doesn't want to do anything else.

Quentin's hand closes on his arm.

In a gesture, he's turned again and a pair of lips land on his. The angle is not the best, he is taller by ten centimeters. But he's so surprised that he can't seem to move or think about what just happened, what is happening.

“What-” he tries to pull back but the older one is back to his mouth a little too quickly.

A moan escapes him. He feels his legs weaken under him. The sensations are too much. He's looking for something to hold onto reality, almost desperately. He ends up grabbing the collar of his partner's shirt, in an attempt to hold himself together. The latter has one hand at the base of his neck, the other at the back of his head.

“Quentin ?”

“Shut up a little bit.”

His legs bang against the mattress behind him and he falls backwards, dragging the other athlete with him. He's out of breath. 

He still wonders if he should give in. It seems a little too easy. Although he could let go of the hold the older man has over him, he could free himself in a gesture. But does he really want to ?

What he wants …

“You are really annoying me,” Quentin mutters against his neck, as he lifts his shirt. “You did some good championships and yet you get worked up for just one bad race.”

The temperature seems to have risen in the room. Or is it just his impression ? He wouldn’t be able to tell. He feels so hot.

Quentin's hands, a little callused, trace his chest and along his muscles, depositing kisses along his pale skin. Emilien tilts his head back, covering his eyes with his right arm, his thoughts are inconsistent. He needs to breathe, he needs to find a better way to breathe.

“I think I properly congratulated you on your medals … can't you even return the favor ?”

“Is that all you want ?” he doesn't want to look at his teammate “Will you leave me alone after this ?”

The silence. The older man's hands rest on his chest, no longer moving. 

Yes, it's true. He must be more lucid. This relation on which they didn’t put a name. He should have distanced himself a long time ago. He wanted it more than once. But every time the competitions start again, every time they see each other again … he sinks again. It's always too easy.

“I already told you. You led the race you had to lead and you took your chance. Well done, you are the one who best represented France today, I am proud of you.”

A burning shame that is in him and that does not need words. 

“Fuck.”

This curse doesn’t make him raise his head or open his eyes. 

“Emilien … look at me.”

“You got what you wanted, right ? You can leave me and go celebrate with the team now …”

It would be better to stop everything now. It would be for the best. Before he gets too involved in what they have, before he starts hoping for more. Before he wants more, way more than what he should be able to have. It's silly how earlier he wished he was alone and right now … right now he finds himself desperately wanting Quentin to stay.

Even if he says quite the opposite.

“Emil', please look at me. Emil' ? Babe ? My love ?”

The other biathlete grabs his forearm and pulls it off his face. Without needing great strength, Emilien has difficulty resisting him. He knows his cheeks have taken on a red tint, he feels pathetic.

“Why don't you want to leave me alone ?”

“I wouldn't be able to leave you like this, Emil’. I hate to see you so beaten, defeated. Gold looks better on you.”

Quentin kisses him again, hard, before pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against his.

“And the pride, and the arrogance, and the confidence, and that smile on your lips, that sparkle in your eyes … rise up, my champion.”

“Since when did you become so talkative ?”

He doesn't miss the way his lover's entire face lights up upon hearing his response. He hates himself for having his heart beating that much. It's stronger than him. He just can’t help it.

“What was I saying ...”

“Do I have the right to have my moment of comfort, now ?” he flutters his eyelashes and sees his companion giving in a little too easily.

“You really are …”

Quentin's hands return to him, much to his delight. And nothing is settled, and they still haven't talked about the vexing question. But he thinks he can get enough of this for the moment.

He can be happy, like that, maybe.

But can he be satisfied ?

To never really have the one he so desires to be his.

He gets rid of his clothes, undoes the other athlete's shirt, although his hands are shaking. He lets Quentin take care of him, like a little too often, like every time he has found himself giving in to his hold. Each of their meetings.

They don’t talk again about the evening which is supposed to happen in the hotel bar or that their team might be waiting for them.

When Emilien falls asleep, Quentin against him, he is finally appeased, calmed down in a way he couldn't be on his own, all alone.

And his expectations are met.

Although-

When he wakes up-

In the double bed, looking for a place by his side that has been cold for a little too long, bitterness seizes him.

Is he really happy like that ?

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh ... okay, may I say this mass start inspired me very much. I always have been hesitant about starting to write about biathlon or no. And if writing about biathlon then about who ?  
> Guess today, I just had my answer haha.
> 
> Hope you liked it, may have another part later ...
> 
> tumblr : laeana


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